


Springtide

by Snapdragonia



Category: EXO (Band), SHINee
Genre: Blood, Codependency, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury, M/M, Masturbation, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snapdragonia/pseuds/Snapdragonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character sketches reflecting on puberty, growing up and making progress. </p><p>sexuality/growing pains/body hair</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Minseok

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter focuses on a different member and a different facet of what it means to grow up in the spot light. Tags are for entire work. Ships are minor.
> 
> I wrote these over the course of the summer on my p hONE during off days while thru hiking. they would not leave me alone. idk. I have plans to write several more, but we'll see. 
> 
> Please do let me know if anything needs fixing or i am missing tags!

The mirror is foggy, dripping beads of water but it still tells him there's barely anything about his body that hasn't changed in the past year. The most obvious change is there's this layer of muscle now, hard won and worth the burn of each extra rep, each chalky sip of protein shake into an empty stomach. He towels off absently, blotting and rubbing, taking his time bending to swipe at his ankles and over the tops of his feet, thinking.

At the beginning he'd thought it might feel bulky, like wearing four layers of clothes- restrictive and separate from himself. Like armor. That's how Changmin had described it when he'd first started showing up at Changmin's gym schedules- 3am and caffeinated.

_It just feels better this way you know? Like no one can touch you now...  Like it doesn't even matter that you can't even choose what kind of fucking underwear you wear... I don't know. Safer, maybe._

He'd just nodded along, eyes fixed politely around Changmin's bare second rib and not the way his cheeks were blotching with the admission. He kept quiet about how he already felt that way, felt insulated in his softness for better and for worse.

So really it'd felt like blooming, he decided later, like when he wanted to (and only when he wanted to) he could bring the patterns of his soul up onto his skin and they were beautiful, nuanced and his to share. He wondered if Changmin ever got to feel that opened up and free, with muscles laid down like plates of metal like that.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, dropping his towel from his damp hair and sitting on the edge of his bed. It wasn't often that he had the energy and free time and peace of mind to do this but now he has all three and the apartment was even mostly empty, a luxury that only happens now that their numbers have dwindled.

Still he pads over to lock the bedroom door, and as a courtesy to Kyungsoo in the next room over, queues up a playlist labeled '~chill~' that Zitao had made almost two years ago. Zitao had been worried about him and showed it by stealing his phone and returning it half an hour later with a look somehow combining a stern jaw and puppy eyes.

_You need to relax gege, you will strain something, here._

This is different too, he remembers, plucking his train of thought back from the foggy mirror and pulling out a tube of lube, settling into his pillows. Yes this is different, but not at all unfamiliar by now, and he lets his hands wander, eyes fixed pointlessly across the room. His fingers gravitate to his collar bones and he lets them, hooks the pads into the hollow and pulls down a little. He can feel the tension out his shoulder and down his sternum, focuses on the shift of bone first, then the pull of muscle, then the pressure against his skin.

There's no use rushing it, and no wrong way to go about it, he's learned, so he just plays. Let's the vaguely electronic music and his thoughts occupy his primary attention while he slowly sinks into his body.

He ends up making a slow circuit of his chest, stroking over his ribs to feel goosebumps burst over his skin, scratching and tugging at the short hairs that are steadily growing back under his belly button and back up to brush all of his fingers over one nipple then the other. He's very patient with himself, when he does this, tries to make it the very antithesis of the too-fast, shallow orgasms he's eked out in timed showers over the years.

The thought has him detouring up to his neck, brow furrowing and blank eyes slipping shut. Zitao had been right. He rubs at a sore spot at the nape of his neck, pets over his jugular and throat. That had been a weird time. Their manager had sat him down and lectured him on what it meant to be the eldest in a group like EXO. That people expected things from him, that he needed to drop this cute "baozi" image and grow up a little, take responsibility.

The image of Luhan's face, crestfallen and confused flashes vivid and he snorts out a chuckle, feeling the rumble in his fingertips. That day he had refused to call Luhan 'ge' after two weeks of indulging him.

It had been a really weird time. His eyes slip open, he'd been scrunching them closed, so he lets them wander with his memory while his hands move back down. He's half hard now, and it's a little surprising with how noisy his mind is, but entirely welcome. He fists over his length so gently the folds and pads of his palm barely touch his dick. It had his legs straightening, clenching automatically and he tries to focus on that, that flexing tingling urge to tighten up. Focus on it so he can disarm it and relax.

He used to hold himself so tight when he'd do this. Every muscle locked trembling, hunched over and breathing so shallow he wasn't sure air was getting past his choked throat. Well, it hadn't always been that way, only after...

His fist clenches too tight at the memory and it makes him gasp, hips pushing up automatically. His breathing feels weird, like the air is thinned out and it doesn't matter that he's gulping it down, he's still breathless. He doesn't want to think about this, particularly, but he has momentum and he doesn't want to lose it. So he firms up his grip and strokes himself hard. It only takes a moment of pleasure tingling up his spine, whiting out everything, before his mind loops back.

The memory is persistent, overly vivid and unpleasant yet it demands to be played out, even now. Especially now. So he lets it, uncouples his dogged mind and lets it run while he slicks up his fingers. He is also determined.

 

_It was one of those nights you don't remember falling asleep, where your consciousness just winks out one second and appears to wink back the next. He remembered feeling pleased about the quality of sleep he'd achieved, as if it were something to be proud of. I slept three hours solid and felt rested! But then he was waking up in earnest, muscles sore and stiff, protesting a stretch as his body shook out of its stillness._

_He was spooned up behind Luhan, which wasn't exactly normal, but not unusual either. He noticed they were both still in their sweaty dance clothes. They must have passed out after their extra practice. They smell of stale sweat and too-hot sleep and he pulled his scrunched nose away from Luhan's nape, but immediately regretted it._

_His shorts were wet. That clinging slimy half-congealed kind of wet that leaves no room for wild early-morning denials. His shorts were wet and they were sticking to the curve of Luhan's ass, his dick nestled perfectly, wetly, into Luhan's crack._

_He had frozen, terror ripping through him. It was the kind of terror unique to being suddenly, publicly faced with two years worth of careful denial. The kind that roars up from a the deepest blackest wells of shame to make you feel too panicked and cornered to run or to fight._

_Then it'd hit him and his heart was thudding sluggishly, sickly against his ribs. His shorts were wet but also warm, and Luhan's shoulder and hip were held tight and he was minutely shifting to peer back at him. His eyes horrifically alert, surprised and curious but so pleased, as he pressed back against him. Rolled his hips back._

_He had panicked. His throat had closed up as a well-worn lick of pleasure had pushed through him and he'd scrambled backwards. It was a blur, but he must have kicked Luhan off the bed, lashed out with his heels and fists, because he remembers the loud thud and Luhan's shout._

_He must have said something. Maybe, 'Get out' or 'Go away', maybe he shouted it, because what felt like the instant Luhan had scrambled up and out the door, Joonmyeon was poking in, brows furrowed. He had bent quickly to shuffle nonsensically with the pillow that had been shoved off the bed while Joonmyeon inquired, had clenched his jaw and kept his eyes from the dark spot on his shorts._

_It'd been a weird time though, maybe for everyone. So no one really questioned him, not even Luhan, even though the confusion and hurt were practically stamped across his forehead the next time they spoke._

_So he honed a set of mental flashcards and adopted a routine systematic and joyless. Every third day during his shower he'd jerk off, forcing images of long pale legs capped in high heels, plush parted lips painted coral pink, and the delicate slanted curve of a collar bone framed with lace through his mind one after the other to keep it from wandering._

He huffed out a half a chuckle as the memory petered out. Or to keep from doing this, he thought grimly, rocking his hips down on three lube slick fingers and huffing out breaths. There were prickles of sweat dotting down his body and his wrist was starting to ache, bent and straining as he rolled his hips down in lazy circles. He had been an idiot, and Zitao had been right- things after that had been markedly strained.

Now though, he was soaring, stretched wide enough to burn a bit and eyes long since glazed over entirely. He could smell himself, hot damp skin and the dusty tang of lube. It was a struggle to keep his wrist tensioned, as every other muscle in his body was draped loose and lax with him as he took his time spiraling higher and higher. He loved this feeling, felt like he could chase it forever and never get tired of feeling so opened up and vulnerable and free.

He was used to having to hear out his noisy mind, to let it shout itself out into the dome of his head. But it wasn't quieting, and he wasn't stopping, and that split second kept replaying over and over behind his eyelids. That moment when he'd met Luhan's eyes, sleep crusted but wide awake. The way Luhan's mouth had been parted with breath and surprise and maybe a little wonder. The way Luhan had hitched his hips back like a question, like one he had asked hundreds of times before. One that he hadn't answered, though it had been stuck in his throat so long his body knew it by heart- knew to press forward and answer that tentative, overdue invitation.

He groaned, untangling fingers from his hair and fixing them around his dick. It felt like hours since he'd locked the door. He was sucking down breaths as deep as he could before gasping them back out, his whole body lit up with the sensation and warmth. He rocked easily back and forth, into his fist then back onto his fingers- both slick and familiar and perfect and then he was coming, easy as deciding it was time. Orgasm swirled up from the base of his spine, hot and overwhelming with the feeling of each cell in his body flushed up with pleasure, his chest tight with love and contentment, for this. For these rare, tiny moments when he bloomed just for himself.

Quarter of an hour later and his bath towel was still damp, chilly, but it worked fine to clean up. He thought absently that there was a meeting at SME soon, in an hour? Two? He moved slowly, letting the deep sleepy haze linger around him as long as possible. Luhan would be there, with his lawyer probably. Maybe with a whole entourage of people now dedicated to his career, his lawsuit, his health and happiness and well being.

Luhan's face flashes again, pulled tight and cold, too thin and pale and red around the eyes; saying goodbye.

He thinks suddenly of apologizing, for never answering, for lashing out, for letting anything get in the way of being one of the people Luhan could, should, rely on.

He thinks of taking him out to coffee and showing him, because it's plain to see he has changed, even if his answer hasn't.


	2. Jongin

He probably doesn't need to practice the choreo now; it's simple and they do it under stage lights often enough to keep the sequences pressed into his bones. But the song is next on his 'maintenance' playlist, so he gets into position and pulls the sticky cotton of his shirt off his ribs. It's one of the few songs on the playlist that isn't EXO. It's mixed in with their old singles and title tracks and the odd ultra-hit from their sunbaes.

He's been at it for hours, and his body is singing tight and responsive around him even while he can feel his focus slipping. He can fight it and win, had spent years learning how to push his mind into keeping up with his body. But he doesn't even need to be practicing like this and the first half of the routine is barely choreographed, so he lets muscle memory take over, let's his mind wander.

He remembers making the playlists a few years ago, when they'd shoved the teaser choreos at him and then the countdown was on. Current, Maintenance, Dead- the tracks trickling down until he could safely retire them, until he could actually soothe that panicky early morning doubt, the itch of forgetting something important. Forgetting something that used to be muscle.

Plenty of dancers don't do this, he knows, but that month before debut had shaped him. Taken his raw molten perfectionism and cast it into an organized system, because no one can hold all that movement, all those rhythms and sequences without a system. Maybe if he could empty out his body and mind and probably his soul too- then _he_ could be the system. It's oddly appealing and he doesn't question if it's something he would even want.

But that isn't how this works, he reminds himself. He doesn't dance just for himself. No, he dances for a lot of reasons. People, the loud brassy intro seem to hiss. _You dance for other people, too._

He twists at the waist, but it's off beat, too soon and the next measured nods of his head are rushed. He grimaces, remembering why he hates this. He could probably call Taemin, he'd be awake, or willing to get that way at the sound of Jongin's ringtone. Won't know until you try.

He moves his body through the chorus, _p-p-p-p-pretty boy_ , and it feels stupid alone and it probably is stupid, because he doesn't even need to be practicing like this. The steps are made for two in this dance, all the important ones anyways.  

He rolls his spine, shifting to look over his shoulder where Taemin would be, and his eyes focus over nothing, the clutter of the back wall of the practice room blurry. It makes his heart clench weirdly, twisting up and he lunges into the breakdown but it's wrong because there's no one in front of him, nothing to shield him for the pause, the breath before they start moving together for real.

He trips over nothing. His bare foot folding over itself and he thinks he feels the cool press of Taemin's hand on his shoulder before anything else. It's fucked up really, because the next second he's on his back listening to his own voice mixed over Taemin's _p r e double-t y pretty boy_ , and there are points scattered over his body that are throbbing. His tailbone, an elbow, the opposite palm smacked raw, and his ankle.  

It occurs to him that he didn't make a sound other than his body thudding against the linoleum, like he was sure he wouldn't fall. It occurs to him that he probably shouldn't be here right now. Not alone anyhow.

His playlist loops and the room is blasted with the opening of MAMA and he wants to laugh or cry, but it's still on the maintenance list so he waits until the chanting is over and pushes himself up. His palm is stinging deep but it's fine, it's his ankle that he's frowning at and he weights it experimentally. He's alone, so there's no one to buffer his reaction for, no one but him to decide how bad it is. So he shifts his whole weight onto it, really actually testing it. It feels hot and clumsy thick, the whole thing aching indiscriminately. It should probably hurt, maybe enough to make him stop dancing.

His attention is snagged back to the song playing when the bridge hits and he really does laugh then, a rough snort. He can hear Taemin's ugly nasally rendition in his head, layered over his own shouty singing and it's terrible but so, so familiar.

The thick ache in his ankle is just starting to soften and he bounces up onto the balls of his feet. It holds and doesn't feel completely terrible but it still has his mouth twisting, chewing on his bottom lip because this is also familiar. It's not the pain, no, it'd be simpler if it was. He thinks of what Taemin would say, how his eyes would look, pinched between concern and an easy, disarming calm.

 

It'd been one of the first things that Jongin had learned about Taemin- that he knew not to ask 'you okay?' That he knew what kinds of questions to ask to avoid being brushed off, that he had smiled around his teeth and lied before. Maybe a lot. Enough to see right through him.

The memory of when they first started to know each other slides close, distant and easy and he yanks it in, anything to postpone the decision he has to make. He chews his lip and rolls his ankle and slumps into the recollection.

 

_It was a long time ago that they were trainees and he remembers more about the way his heart had lunched, kicking up to speed and crowding his throat, than whatever had been wrong. Maybe his low back, that was always a good bet. His brow was slick with sweat but it didn't feel good- it wasn't because of how furiously he could get his heart pumping. It was just from pain. Taemin had found him in the bathroom during break and he'd been taller then, just a bit- enough to meet his eyes in the mirror and look down._

_'They won't give you cortisone shots until you debut, you know, so don't mess up your back now.'_

_It had felt like relief, then. To be caught for real, seen, but by someone like him, someone who understood. Someone who knew that this was necessary and maybe even savored it too. He had sagged against the sink and the dull hot pinch in his back had bloomed, acknowledged and unavoidable now. Taemin had lied to the dance instructor for him that first time._

The playlist has worked its way up to Wolf, and he's frozen in the mirror, weighting and unweighting his ankle. He's trying to listen and interpret and decide but his attention skitters away again and he lets it- he's not ready anyways.

 

_It'd been during Wolf, actually, that Taemin had found him in the bathroom again. It was different that time, backstage at the biggest award show of the year and Jongin was flying high- how could he not, with two dance solos in their biggest, coolest stage yet. The painkillers didn't hurt either, but that didn't mean anything. It was just so he could be perfect, and they needed him to be perfect, desperately, with Kyungsoo limping on every other step and Baekhyun sweating out his blazer, eyes wild._

_He had expected an easy grin, the shared thrill of showing off just how reckless he was willing to be, how much he was willing to risk for the chance to be on this exact stage. But Taemin's voice had been too edged, his eyes too hard and fixed up this time and he could see disappointment there, felt that cold lurch of shame and it was the first time he'd felt it since he'd debuted. Since him and Taemin had claimed each other's risks. Since he had been a kid and left home and his sisters._

_They had always known, always been able to see exhaustion in the tiny pinch of this eyes, a guarded joint in the way he got out of the car. It wasn't that his parents weren't paying attention, it wasn't that simple. No they watched. It was just that their chests were too full of love and pride and that inevitably corrosive tinge of parental competitiveness to really see. It was convenient._

_Even when they had evidence in front of their faces, the denial had still made a sort of sense. He had been such an easy, soft kid before ballet, before it swept him up and possessed him and grew a reserve of brutal perfectionism in him._

_'There was no way our little jonginnie would strain himself like that, it's just not possible... he can't even wear socks with seams for heaven's sake!'_

_They didn't see what he saw though, they weren't at the barre every day watching his peers crumple, gangling and rounded and slipping under the crushing mercurial force of... Growing up. His parents didn't see the tick twisting his jazz instructors mouth when one of them returned from a month away, a family vacation. They didn't watch the kid stumble through a routine their body used to know because it wasn't the same, muscles suddenly pulled tight over aching bones._

_So when he started to feel that obscure, impossibly deep throb of bones moving he did what he had to do. He learned to ignore it and then when that wasn't enough he learned to fight he- he learned exactly how much pressure and heat you had to use to iron out the upsets puberty throws at you every day._

_He spent years pushing away the growing pains- a pointless byproduct, while he forced knobby knees to tuck into a pirouette. He perfected and polished and then he did it again the next day. And the next. And it turns out that kind of ruthlessness is kind of hard to unlearn. It also turns out it's exactly the kind of dogged recklessness that'll get you success as an idol._

 

It doesn't work that way though, not anymore, he reminds himself. The pain means something now and he has to pay attention if he wants this, wants to keep chasing perfection. His lip looks bruised and he hauls in a sigh, releases both. He can feel the ache in his ankle receding, pulling sore into the specific tendon. He sits down and his shoulders slump forward, suddenly heavy under the weight of exhaustion. He lets his eyes droop closed while he pokes at his ankle, mapping the tendon from his shin to the top of his foot.

He wonders if Taemin knows he's here tonight. Probably not, it's not like he told anyone he was staying late. It makes his cheeks tingle hot but he wishes he had. He thinks of Taemin's voice again, focuses on replaying some of Taemin's words in his mind as best he can, perfecting the tone Taemin uses when he calls late at night like this.

_'Did you have a good practice Jonginnie?'_

_'Tell me what it feels like?'_

_'Aren't you sleepy? I'm sleepy.'_

_'Do you want to come over?'_

Jongin feels the smile in Taemin's voice echoing around his chest and thinks it's probably kind of weird, but it's enough. A shiver wracks up his spine, sweat drying on his skin, and he pushes himself up and walks over to the stereo. He does it carefully, no where near a limp, but with intention and care and the shape of Taemin's eyes squished up with a smile in his mind.

Moonlight is playing when he gets there and his eyes flick over to the folding chairs against the back wall, a spark of cruel possibility curls in his gut. _You wouldn't even be on your ankle, you can keep going, there's nothing really wrong with it anyways. All you have to do is sit._

He holds his breath, and then the song is over and he tamps down on the urge. He feels bitter and exhausted and he thinks this should feel better- doing the right thing, but he just feels ashamed, hollowed out and grumpy and lonely. No, more than lonely, he feels abandoned and it's irrational and unfair because he needs to learn to do this on his own but it's hard. He shoves his body into a thick hoodie and feels marginally better, retracting into it while he gathers his stuff.

He's halfway out the door when his phone trills and it's Taemin so the sound has him pausing over the threshold and digging the phone out of his pocket.

'jonginnie~<3 hope u had a good practice, im proud of you! see you later today ok, it's bed time!'

He's striding away from the door before his thumbs start tapping a reply, the practice room door clicking closed behind him loud in the early morning hush. His mouth is wide with soft affection and gratitude and he doesn't even mind having to favor his ankle as he makes his way home.

 


	3. Zitao

The air here is different, enough so that it took three whole days to stop noticing it's tickle in his nose. Once he'd stopped noticing the differences though, the similarities became obvious- the smog for one, dense and over cut with the tang of salty ocean air. The way the city stench fused with the smells of cooking food, more sweet than spicy, here. It struck him that he was more homesick for Qingdao a month in Los Angeles then he had been three years in Seoul. _It's because you're alone. Baba always said you had to make it on your own in the end._

So here he is, the english on his can of shaving cream slowly untangling itself day by day, the letters arranging themselves into words, then sentences. It's a familiar process by now, the slow steady assimilation of language. This time around it's easier though, he supposes. He has the time and freedom to wander the hot, wide neighborhood streets of LA, fumble his way through answers to curious questions, then pose his own. _Yes I'm visiting, from China, for business mostly, no pictures please_ and _where is a cafe close by? With wifi?_

His phone vibrates, clattering abruptly against the tiled countertop where it's propped up and displaying a screenful of messages, notifications and reminders. He's already gotten his daily message from Sehun, a laundry list of complaints long enough to convey his sour pout from halfway across the world. Sehun's messages scream for attention, for answers, for an apology he can't give, not yet at least. He hopes sehun can be patient, just this once, for him. He tries not to think about how Sehun's face had looked when he was still texting Luhan, then the day he'd stopped. This one is from Jongdae though, and he leans over to read the preview while his hands continue their routine, petting over his skin.

Jongdae doesn't text often, but when he does they are little things that don't need replies. Snippets of memories, inside jokes or affections. Their message history reads like a diary, one sided and brief.  Each entry is infused with private tone and emotion, like Jongdae gathered up every little thought and feeling for him and boiled them down over days before pressing send. Like Jongdae has noticed the span of a message preview is all the space he can occupy in Tao's life right now, and he still wants it, wants whatever he can have. Zitao loves them.

_Hope you can rest up soon xiǎo mì táo~_

He's still staring at the notification when his screen flicks black, and he finds his fingers pushing hard against his jaw bone. Jongdae is in the thick of a rushed set of promotions, but still keeping tabs on him- letting Zitao know he's watching. He closes his eyes and lets the ache of affection and loneliness pull his ribs tight for the space of a breath before forcing the air out in a rush and meeting his gaze in the mirror. He firms his expression, he's going out tonight.

There's a dark red smudge around each of his eyes, the soft skin looks delicately bruised. His mouth twists as he remembers the feeling of thick concealer painted over his entire eye as make up artists tittered about a 'blank slate' and 'neutralizing tones'. He can still feel the way it had gummed up each blink, stinging into his eye with sweat, and how even then the stylists had snapped at him. As if he were purposefully sabotaging his own fucking skin. There's a tube of concealer out on the counter, the hangul nearly smudged off with the warm grip of his fingers over weeks. He leaves it there today.

There's also a dark shadow pressed close against his jaw, over his chin and lip. He reaches up to push against it, feeling the tight grip of sandpaper hairs pulling his skin. This he doesn't leave.

The routine is near automatic by now, though it's usually in the morning and half asleep, so tonight is different. He dispenses a dollop of foam into his palm, the hiss of the can loud in the small space, and sucks in his lips to smooth it over his face, under his chin and down his throat .

He's bare to the waist but still pulls a hand towel over the counter, wetting his razor with a quick spurt of water. Last week he had learned about the drought when he'd asked a stranger where he could buy a bottle of water.

It's kind of meditative, he thinks, eyes trained in the mirror where he's dragging the razor down his cheekbone in short strokes until it glides smooth. He thinks suddenly of the way his Baba's mouth smiles, grey bristly skin folded up with pride. He has to flatten out his own mouth to keep his skin taught. He thinks of the feeling of Baba's hand ruffling his hair, telling him for what must be the hundredth time about how he'd been born with a thick dark fuzz covering his soft skull. How Baba had known the moment he'd seen it that his boy would grow up a strong man.

It didn't change as he grew either, how sometimes baby hair does, it stayed thick and dark. But really his hair hadn't entered his awareness until he started practicing wushu, and suddenly there was attention fixed on his limbs, on their long smooth lines and the places they join his body. Fixed on the soft downy hairs brushed dark over his arms and legs, even as a kid.

Mostly it had been fine, it had earned him his _peach_ nickname after all. But then he had turned thirteen and it seemed over night his fuzz had turned thick and wiry, and as much as he bloomed happily under Baba's every affection, that had changed too.

He remembers puzzling it out one night, after Baba had swapped his usual goodnight hug and coos of 'sweet dreams mì táo', for a heavy hand clapped over his shoulder and a look that was warm but so, so far away, saying 'goodnight Zitao'.

Peaches don't have fuzz like this, he had thought frantically, pinching and pulling at the hairs over his forearm. They were dark, slippery. And it was silly, probably, but he had been on the verge of tears, trying to understand how to be loved like Taozi, how to be strong like Zitao.

He didn't have long to figure it out, he thought harshly, pulling the razor down over his jaw. It was only a year later he was being scouted, auditioning, and then it was done, a contract signed. He was moving to another country and his Baba's hand was clamped painfully over the muscle of his neck. _I'm so proud of you, Zitao. Work hard so you can grow up strong. I love you._

He had cried in the taxi to the airport, quiet and shaking next to his scouting agent. Maybe part of him knew even then; he wouldn't be home to visit in six weeks like his parents had been promised. He huffed out a laugh. In the end it was longer than six months before he could even talk to them properly.

He rinsed his razor under the tap and brought it back up to this lip, pulling his mouth tight and dragging the blades in quick pulls between his nose and lip. That was something Baba had brought up early and often, how they had lied, right from the start. _How can you say you're proud to belong to these people Zitao? These liars who treat you this way?_

Before last month it had been so long since he'd spent more than a over-scheduled 24 hours in Qingdao. It'd been different than he was expecting. It'd been exhausting. He grimaced at his reflection, turning to inspect the bare plane of his cheeks before tilting his chin up, mouth pursed, to shave under his jaw.

He didn't even feel the nick, just saw the skin above his Adam's apple suddenly part, a seam of red. He groaned as the sting set in, already reaching for a square of toilet paper to press against the bloom of blood. It didn't hurt, not really, but it was annoying. Unnerving. He swallowed and felt the broken skin shift and part, spitting up a fresh dribble of blood that pooled then dripped, thick and opaque onto the ceramic of the sink.

He froze, the fold of toilet paper clutched tight and dry. His eyes glued to the tiny messy splash of blood and he's not sure if it's the homesickness or the loneliness, or just the image of blood bright on white porcelain that has the memory crowding suddenly into his mind, loud and impatient to be remembered.

 

_It had been easy to get what he needed. The first temporary EXO M dorm was basically a cluster of trainee rooms and while they were monitored after hours, the employees tended to hang around the common room, closest to the bigger rooms. So it was easy to slip down the dusty back stairwell and into the frosted night street, heading for the now familiar convenience store down the block._

_Zitao had been shoved in with a few other foreign prospects at the beginning, older than them all by at least a few years. But now he had a group, a stage name. A debut date ticking down. So he was shoved in with five boys he had been ordered to consider family instead. He had been wary, at first, but excitement is infectious and he hadn't talked to his Baba in four months and Kris had been charming, cool and most importantly- Gege, even if he rolled his eyes to the extreme, lips pouty as he whined. 'For the last time, you have to call me Hyung. Or Duizhang.'_

_He never got in trouble for sneaking out that night, so he supposes no one saw him slinking back down the hallway. He remembers the way his sweaty hands had crumpled the black plastic bag, the soft rattles of the shaving cream can inside._

_It had been late enough by then that most everyone was passed out already or close to it and the bathroom was empty. He hated showering here, but the locker rooms down stairs were long past closed so he wrapped the whole crinkly black bag in his towel and tried not to jostle it as he walked._

_The bathroom had been disgusting by that time of night, already having seen a dozen showers. The floor was wet and the air was hot and heavy. It smelled like fruity shampoo and shit._

_He'd watched a video the day before, a tutorial featuring some impressively done-up ulzzang in the tiniest short shorts, showing off the curve of their calf and giving pointers. How to angle the razor and how often to rinse it, how much pressure to use. It'd been so helpful and the carefully lit shot of the long smooth line of their leg had solidified his resolve and confidence._

_There wasn't much time once he started the water running so he took his time undressing, wrestling the shiny razor from plastic packaging and setting it on the floor next to the shower. Getting ready._

_It turned out shaving the front of your legs was easy. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but the first stroke still had him gasping, staring at the smooth tan stripe of skin. It felt funny, cool and sensitive; each drop of water distinct and tangible on the newly bared skin._

_He'd worked steadily, gaining confidence and speed until he'd made it down to both ankles and his legs stretched long and smooth in front of him. He couldn't stop petting over them, warm water sneaking into his mouth with how wide he was grinning._

_The back was more difficult, and he was twisting and bending, moving half as fast as before. It made him nervous to not be able to see what he was doing and he barely ghosted the razor behind his knee, breath held tight._

_According to the tutorial once he'd finished that part he should have been home free. Apparently the back of your thighs were simple if you sat down, but he didn't make it quite that far._

_It was one of those moments that happens in quarter speed, a few seconds stretching out long enough to give you a chance to fully comprehend exactly how shitty it's going to be. In the order of remembrance he recalls that the drain was matted over with shaving cream and hair, that he was crouching in a sudsy puddle when Kris had knocked on the door._

_His stomach had lurched violently as he shot up straight, his heart suddenly scrambling to move too-hot blood up, up. He can't remember what Kris had said, it didn't matter though. Black spots had bloomed ashy over his vision and he had crumpled, heart in his throat and the back of his thigh stinging, bad._

 

He supposes it'd been the right thing to do, he doesn't blame Kris for bursting into the bathroom. If it wasn't the crack of dead weight on porcelain that made Kris panic, then the red wash of blood definitely did it. He'd woken up to Kris' voice- Mandarin, hysterical and accented. The puddle of water had been stained crimson and he remembers kicking, scrambling out of it. Remembers Kris finally getting his big shaking hands in Zitao's armpits and hauling him up, wet and gangling, bare and bloody.

Everyone's eyes had been trained on him, and there was concern pinching Jongdae's eyebrows down at the ends, and Luhan's gaze was trained on his legs, curious and hot. Yixing looked stunned, mouth gaped open while Minseok side stepped him, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around him and Kris' arms both.

He wonders if he would have cried quite so much if Kris just, hadn't panicked. He's pushing on the tiny cut, watching his blood wick through the toilet paper, takes it off to fold it and blot the last few sluggish drops up. No, he decides, he hadn't been strong yet.

Here and now though, the bleeding has stopped and he meets his eyes in the mirror, they're sharp, focused. He's going out tonight, soon, and he doesn't usually bother cleaning up this much, but this is important. He's meeting some people for drinks. They'll probably make a showy circuit of loud exclusive clubs before settling in a back room somewhere to talk. He'll be alone. He'll also be negotiating the terms of his solo debut.

He leans forward to study, tips his face so the light catches on the curved line of his nose, the pretty dip at his temple, the softness of his bottom lip. He did a good job with the shave, but there's still a blue-black cast around his jaw, under his skin.

  
He pets over the skin, it's velvety smooth regardless, soft under his fingertips and he presses in, searching. He finds the strong solid bone underneath easily. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> you can find me at kpoophell.tumblr.com if you want to talk about it :D


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